Easter: Prayer as Poetry

This is what I do, right? Contemplate conditions, write in response. Today, in light of Easter, I find myself meditating on Christ's crucifixion. I write. I laugh. I weep. I wonder. I entertain myself in the prayer that is my poetry.

Peace. Love,
Melissa

Trade Offs
by Melissa Borgmann

What if we stepped into that space?
Recognized our nearness to death:
Thorny piercing of skin
Nails through the wrists
(because the palms would not have worked, right?)

See this:
Sharply hammered iron pins that are driven through epidermis, veins,
move over bone.
Yes.
Affixed.
[Can you imagine the craftsman who forged that spike?]

Lungs collapsing from the tug of ribs
Pulled down by the weight of legs
Chest cavity crushing spirit.

And we try to breath.
We try.
He tries. We try.

Something like blood or sweat trickles down from the temples.
Do you get a headache? Appropriate, or not?

Yes, “This crucifixion gives me a headache.”
[“Me, too.”]

Pain is so inconvenient.
Suffering so easily remedied by, say, a cocktail?
A glass of wine appears.
The bitter irony of drink.

This is my body, given up for you.
This is my blood, shed for you and for all, so that sins may be forgiven.
Do this in remembrance of me.

Have the meal, it is much easier.

Amen.

****

Meditation on Nail Man
by Melissa Borgmann

My name is Ike and
I make the spikes
That drive through flesh and bone
Of one called Christ.

It’s hot and sweaty labor
To forge steel in fire
But the point is to honor God
With these gifts that never tire.